


Collision

by Chierei



Series: Redacted [3]
Category: Gotham (TV), John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22567825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chierei/pseuds/Chierei
Summary: “John Wick in Gotham City. I never thought I'd see the day.”Post-Redacted.
Relationships: Administrator & John Wick, Edward Nygma & John Wick, Oswald Cobblepot & John Wick, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Series: Redacted [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529969
Comments: 30
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

  
_Art by[Filthycasual.](https://filthycasualfanfic.tumblr.com/)_

John Wick stepped through the doorway, sidestepping around the vast amount of construction. Several workers gave him a look as he walked, his lack of hard hat and the dog trotting at his heel making him stand out.

A man in a crisp black suit rushed toward him, his sleeves and elbows not escaping the ample sawdust in the area. “Sir, I am afraid you can’t be here,” he said, his tone a mix of panic and annoyance.

John turned and raised an eyebrow.

The man backpedaled immediately. “Oh, Mr. Wick, I’m sorry,” he said, bowing his head in apology. “I did not recognize you. How may I be of assistance?”

“Is the Manager in?” John asked.

“Yes, sir. Please, follow me.”

He led John though the site, dodging the busy workers as they passed them carrying vast slabs of marble or heavy oak beams. They eventually came to an open doorway, still framed crudely with exposed wood, and his guide gestured John forward, himself lingering back.

Matthew was standing, half-bent over a makeshift table as he examined a set of blueprints. John took a moment to take in the changes. Matthew had even more piercings and tattoos than he remembered, but his white button-up was still pushed up to his elbows, showing off his forearms. However, instead of a plain black vest, he was wearing an elaborate purple and black brocade waistcoat with threads of silver running through the fabric. He had topped it with a set of sleeve garters, black silk ruffles wrapped around his biceps and old-fashioned in a way that suited him.

His hair was the most startling change though, styled in a distinctly ruffled manner with long strands draped to frame his face with a sharp purple highlight running through the black strands.

John knocked on the empty frame. “Am I interrupting?” he asked with a playful smile.

Matthew’s head snapped up, and there was a flash of confusion before he lit up with a smile. “Mr. Wick,” he said, moving to give him a quick hug in greeting, a startling tactile display that John barely remembered to return. “What in the world is the infamous John Wick doing here?”

John leaned down to press a kiss to his cheek. “I was just passing through.”

“Uh-huh,” Matthew said skeptically. “Likely story,” he teased. “Come on, let us move to somewhere more comfortable.”

They chatted idly on the short walk to the club next door, Matthew leading him up to a private corner. John watched with amusement as the workers scurried around him, not hiding a chuckle at the way the staff jumped when Matthew barked out the order for drinks. It had always been a marvel to watch how someone of seemingly diminutive stature could command such respect and had his staff scrambling to accommodate him.

“Now, now,” Matthew said, once they had been given their drinks and a bowl of water for his dog. “John Wick in Gotham. I never thought I'd see the day. What are you up to, Mr. Wick?” Matthew crossed his legs, propping up his head in one hand as he looked at John and eyes twinkling.

“Enjoying retirement,” John said, taking a sip of his whiskey. “So, I guess I wasn't _exactly_ passing through, but I heard rumors that you were in Gotham, and I thought I'd come to say hello.”

“Well, _hello_ , Mr. Wick,” Matthew said with a flirty flutter of his lashes. “So tell me about your retirement. Have you taken up any interesting hobbies? Knitting? Cross stitching?”

“Crocheting, actually,” John answered dryly.

Matthew hummed thoughtfully, and John could practically see the devilish look in his eyes. “You know what? I can see it.”

John rolled his eyes. “So, imagine my surprise to hear you had stepped down as Administrator and were in Gotham City of all places.” The question lingered at the end of his statement, unspoken but clear as day.

“I grew up in Gotham City,” Matthew said with a shrug, and John didn't think he'd ever seen the other man offer personal information about himself so readily. “Gotham is my home.”

“You know, that explains so much,” John said after a moment of thought.

Matthew laughed again, and John had forgotten how much he had missed the other man. ”You know, Addy said the same thing.”

“I _had_ heard you had stolen her away,” John said. “Winston is heartbroken still.” Not that John felt too much pity for the man; he was still a little bitter after being shot and thrown off the Continental roof however Winston justified it for the best in the end.

“Finders, keepers,” Matthew joked with a waggle of his finger.

“Well, technically, Winston did find her first,” John said.

“Hush, you,” Matthew said, nudging his leg with his ankle in jest. “But really, John, it is good to see you,” he said with a smile that was so soft that it couldn’t be anything but genuine. Matthew placed a hand on John’s forearm, giving him a playful look from under his lashes. “What else have you been up to other than crocheting?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I'm not sure where you want me to start. I bought some land upstate that had a cabin and spent the first few months renovating the place,” John said, scratching his neck idly in embarrassment.

Matthew faked a swoon and an exaggerated leer. “What I'd have paid to be a fly on _that_ wall. John Wick shirtless and swinging a hammer? Yum.”

John rolled his eyes and gave Matthew a playful nudge in return. “Oh, hush. Not to mention, I'm pretty sure doing any type of construction work without a shirt is a safety hazard.”

Matthew pouted. “Don't ruin my fun. A girl can dream,” he said, bringing up his drink to hide his smile. “So other than getting sweaty, you have been living the simple life. John Wick, mountain man.”

John chortled, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. Somewhere along the line, Matthew had moved closer, brushing their arms together in a way that sent a fission of warmth down John’s spine.

John licked his lips, watching Matthew closely who just looked back, head slightly cocked. “I,” John started to say before he broke off. He gave himself a second to center himself before he started again. “I never said thank you,” he finally said, soft.

Matthew shot him a confused look.

“For helping me back then,” John clarified, reaching out to grab Matthew’s hand, stroking his thumb along the soft skin. “I know you took a risk helping me out, and I would have never found the Elder without you. I—” John broke off again, overcome with a moment of emotion. He squeezed Matthew’s hand a little tighter. “I don't know what I would have done without you after it all.”

“I'm sure you could have found someone else to stitch you up,” Matthew said, looking at him with honesty, a tenderness that John hadn’t seen him in a long time, if ever.

John squeezed Matthew’s hand affectionately. “You know that's not what I mean,” he said.

Matthew's eyes were shining, soft and open, and he looked so vulnerable, as delicate as he had looked during those dark and quiet nights that they had spent wrapped in each other's arms. He cupped John’s large hands into his own, and his skin was so warm. “I don't have a lot of friends, John. I would have hated to lose one of the few people I can trust.”

* * *

Ed always knew that he was a jealous creature. The Edward Nygma of before would have been filled with jealous urges that he tamped down with a vengeance, but it was a monster he couldn’t put back in the box after the first time he had slid a knife between Tom Dougherty's ribs.

So, when he came home and found Oswald— _his_ Oswald—cozying up to a handsome stranger whose cheap white shirt did nothing to hide the thick chords of muscles, the green-eyed monster reared its head up.

“Honey, I'm home,” Ed chimed loudly and with an almost mocking cheer as he closed the door behind him. Ed knew he had nothing to worry about. Oswald was always going to come back to him in the end, there was no doubt. Because Oswald was his, and he was Oswald’s. They were two parts of a whole.

But even knowing that, hearing Oswald laughing and smiling at some strange, handsome man—it made something in the pit of his stomach twist. At least until he saw the way Oswald's face lit up when he caught sight of Ed.

Ed took the few steps needed to reach Oswald, catching the man in his arms he started to stand, and kissed him. It was the type of kiss that someone gave to a returning soldier after a long absence—long and sensual and stealing their breath away.

Ed drew back, taking pride in the dazed look left on Oswald's face.

“Missed you,” Ed said, leaning back down to press another chaste kiss to his lips.

“Missed you too,” Oswald said, and the smile he got was dazzling. “Oh, excuse my manners,” Oswald said, as though just remembering company and taking a step back. “Ed, this is my old friend John Wick. John, this is my partner, Ed.”

Ed liked the way Oswald called him his partner—because they were partners in everything, business, crime, life.

The stranger—John Wick—stood up to offer up his hand to shake. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Ed gave him an untrusting look and restrained himself from stupid alpha displays like trying to crush his hand, especially when he knew he was no match for the other man. “Likewise. Oswald hasn’t mentioned you before,” he said, nonchalantly, a subtle ( _or not so subtle_ ) dig.

But John Wick just laughed, and it made him look even more handsome with a smile and the stubble and everything. Ed hated him just a little more. “I’m not surprised. Matthew is notoriously recalcitrant on speaking about himself,” he said.

And Ed had to concede that point. The Oswald of before had been the opposite of recalcitrant—everything was about him. It was the Oswald Cobblepot Show, and Ed, despite all the troubles it had gotten them into, had enjoyed it. Oswald had been like an open book back then, but no matter how many pages Ed read, he never could solve the puzzle.

But Oswald of the now was quieter, less prone to outbursts and almost frustratingly tight-lipped at times.

“So,” Ed started, trying to pick up the thread of conversation. He hated not knowing details, hated how Oswald looked at John and how John looked back. He seated himself close to Oswald—any closer and he’d be in the other man’s lap—and wrapped an arm around his waist possessively. “What brings you to Gotham, John Wick?”

“Just visiting an old friend. Matthew helped me out of a few tight spots a few years ago, and I wanted to drop by,” John said, petting the dog, that Ed was only now noticing, on the head. The pit bull huffed out a content sigh, setting his head down on John’s lap as it basked in the attention.

“Oh?” Ed said. “Do tell.” Oswald had opened up more and more about this time in New York, but even then, Ed knew that there were gaps. Not that Oswald was purposefully hiding anything, but twelve years was a lifetime of missed memories.

Oswald nudged Ed on the shoulder, blushing lightly in a way that made the jealousy tighten in the pit of his stomach. “No, don’t you dare, Mr. Wick,” he said, and Ed hated how he said ‘Mr. Wick’. Like it was a secret between just the two of them.

“Would you rather me tell him about the time you and Addy somehow snuck a horse into Winston’s suite?” John countered, his smirk not hidden behind his drink.

“You have no proof that either Addy or I was involved,” Oswald said with mock snootiness. “Slander and lies, I say.” But the smile on his face betrayed him.

Ed was starting to feel like an outsider, the third wheel on a bicycle that had years of friendship and intimacy. And _their_ shared history was...easy, painless. Not like Ed’s history with Oswald, that was fraught with more animosity than friendship. And Ed had just gotten Oswald back, had spent the last months prying out the bits of the man that he knew was still in there and thinking that he knew the man as well as anyone did. Perhaps not in totality yet, but he knew him and loved him and was his.

And now he was confronted with this entire life that Oswald had between leaving and going. And Ed had known about it, but it had never seemed real. High Table and assassins and hotels. Ed hadn’t thought about the people Oswald had met—maybe he had erroneously assumed that Oswald had no friends, that he was nothing without Gotham—or the relationships and stories and the entire life he had that Ed still knew so very little about.

Ed hadn’t realized he had clenched his fist until the pain of his nails biting into his palm brought him out his musing. He was a little hurt that Oswald hadn’t noticed that Ed had been silent for the last ten minutes, that he was barely listening to the two of them.

He forced himself to unclench his fist and focus on the thread of conversation, trying to nod and smile at all the right parts.

But it was odd. Ed hadn’t noticed it at first, but Oswald’s demeanor was different. He smiled more, laughed more, and kept brushing his hand on John’s arm, looking up at above the rim of his glasses in a way that couldn’t be mistaken as anything but blatant flirtation.

But...it wasn’t the way Ed knew Oswald flirted. Oswald’s brand of flirtation was usually shy smiles and lavish gifts, so afraid of rejection that he hid his interest behind excuses. The first month of their new relationship had been a lesson in patience—Oswald had refused even the most basic physical affection from Ed. His praise was liberal but always delivered with this undercurrent of vulnerability. It had taken Ed weeks before he had realized that Oswald was always waiting for a rejection, and Ed had gone into overdrive affirming and reaffirming his devotion to the man.

And sometimes Oswald still gave him that look, the one that was just waiting for another bullet in the stomach, but it was becoming rarer and rarer. Ed hoped that one day it would disappear together.

But this brand of flirtation, brazen and physical, was nothing like Ed had ever seen from Oswald. This was beyond even Oswald’s time as mayor, when he had turned up the charm on everyone, so most of the city was half in love with him. This was the Oswald that had swayed the rich to his side, full of irresistible charm, and then turned up even more.

It confounded him. Who was this man in front of him? Because it wasn’t his Oswald.

Ed almost wanted to hit himself in the head for missing it. The answer was obvious.

Because this wasn’t Oswald. This was Matthew Richardson, the man Oswald had play-acted for years and who looked at John Wick with big trusting eyes and tongue-in-cheek innuendos. This was the side of Oswald that allowed crazy redheads to call him Matty and smiled fondly, who gossiped over martinis and beers, and who both was and wasn’t part of Oswald at all.

Something in Ed’s chest loosened at the revelation. Because this man—this John Wick—might have years of Oswald’s history and time, but he didn’t have Oswald himself. He only had the facade born out of anger and pain, and it was Ed who had the real, _true_ Oswald Cobblepot.

Ed rested his head Oswald’s shoulder, garnering a questioning look. Ed smiled in return, lacing his fingers through Oswald’s and sighed.

* * *

“Ed?”

“Yes?” Ed said, looking up from where he was digging through the dresser for a clean pair of pajamas. He hadn’t _technically_ moved into Oswald’s apartments in the Continental, but it was mostly a formality at this point. He spent six out of seven nights sharing his bed with the man, a routine that was only interrupted when he was in the middle of some heist and therefore tended to fall asleep in his workshop.

John and Oswald had talked until late, swapping stories and jokes.

Ed had dutifully refilled their drinks and nodded along, doing his best to pay attention and use this opportunity to learn more about the man he loved. His jealousy had cooled partially when he realized that this wasn’t his Oswald, but he couldn’t help but grit his teeth a little whenever Oswald patted John’s knee or gave him that one, specific smile.

Oswald had insisted that John take the guest bedroom that was more often used as a storage space for more of Ed’s equipment and supplies. John had given Oswald such a heartfelt thanks that Ed was sure, for a moment, that he was going to try and kiss the man. But instead he rested his hand on his shoulder and disappeared with his dog into the bedroom.

Ed realized he had missed Oswald’s question. “Sorry, can you repeat the question?” he asked, blinking.

“I was just asking if everything was okay. You were awfully quiet this evening,” Oswald said, slipping out of his shirt and waistcoat to reveal the full expanse of his tattoos. It had been...an adjustment at first, but Ed now loved to spend his time tracing each line with his tongue and fingers. Ed’s eyes automatically went to Oswald’s chest and _their_ riddle, the proof that Oswald loved him, that Ed was branded into his very skin.

“Ah,” Ed said, trying to keep his tone casual. “I just thought you and John were enjoying the chance to catch up.”

He must not have succeeded in sounding as nonchalant as he had tried, because Oswald pulled him into an embrace from behind, slipping his arms around Ed’s waist and pressing a kiss onto his back. “Were you jealous?” Oswald asking, teasing.

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean,” Ed stuttered and then sighed. He turned, pulling Oswald into his chest and pressing a kiss into his hair and the cold feeling of his nipple piercings against his own torso ( _and had that been a_ very _pleasant discovery_ ). “Yes, I was jealous,” Ed finally admitted. He should be used to the feeling—he was always jealous whenever Oswald paid anyone else attention. He could admit it now, years in the future, that framing Jim Gordon and exposing Butch had more to do with removing any rival for his attention than anything else.

Oswald leaned on to his toes to kiss Ed on the nose. “You don’t need to be,” he said, nuzzling into his neck.

“I know,” Ed said, running his hand down Oswald’s back to rest right above his buttock. “But you have years of history that I wasn’t around for. And you can’t deny that you were flirting with the man.”

Oswald pulled away, looking startled. “Flirting with John? What are you talking about?”

Ed gave him a deadpan look. “You kept touching him, his arm or his leg. You giggled, Oswald. _Giggled_.”

Oswald had a look on his face like he was reviewing the entire evening and then flushed a bright pink. He buried his face into Ed’s bare chest. “Oh no, I was. I hadn’t realized,” he said, words muffled as he spoke into Ed’s chest. “I am sorry, Ed. I didn’t mean to, but I suppose I defaulted to how I usually speak to John.”

“So, you usually flirt outrageously and shamelessly with the man?” Ed said, the jealousy coming back up again. He tried to push it back down, but his unhappiness was evident in his tone.

Oswald blushed again. “Well, yes. But,” he hurriedly added, “it’s how I acted with everyone those first few years.” His eyes grew distant. “I had reduced myself down to something simple—flirty and fun. So that’s how Addy and John know me. I’m still not...used to being someone else, being _myself_ , when I’m around them.”

“So, there wasn’t anything between you two?” Ed ventured to ask, recalling Addy’s once-upon-a-time mention of Oswald’s exes that had made him burn. Ed’s eidetic memory wasn’t always a blessing.

Oswald hesitated, and it was enough of an answer. “I won’t say there was nothing, but it was never serious.” At Ed’s dubious look, Oswald continued. “We slept together for about six months. It wasn’t a relationship—we were just friends who sometimes fucked. We stopped after John met his late-wife.” It made Ed feel a modicum better, but he still didn’t like it. “But John was probably the best friend I had ever had other than you. He and Addy were the ones who helped me realize that friendship didn’t always have to hurt.”

Ed flinched at that. “So, you...didn’t have feelings for him?” Ed said, quiet and hating himself for asking.

Oswald paused and bit his bottom lip as he toyed with one of his piercings, and Ed almost could feel his heart stop. “I have great affection for the man, and I think,” Oswald started to say, slow as though choosing his words carefully, “that, maybe, had things been different, if we had more time, I could have fallen in love with John.”

Ed tried not to want to punch something.

“But Ed,” Oswald said, forcing Ed to look at him in the eyes. “In the end, I think I was still too in love with you.”

Ed kissed him, desperate and fervent. When they stopped, Ed leaned his forward against Oswald’s, eyes closed as he just enjoyed the sounds of the other man’s breathing.

“I love you,” Ed said softly. “More than I think I can describe.”

Oswald leaned up to press another kiss to his mouth. “And I love you, Ed.”

* * *

Ed woke earlier than Oswald, as usual. Gone were the days of Oswald stumbling out of his bedroom in the late morning—he had almost as strict of a schedule as Ed had. But Ed had always been a morning person. So when the sun was just rising, sending long shadows over the floor, Ed carefully untangled himself from Oswald’s arms.

He pulled on his robe—Oswald’s robe—the robe that he had scavenged from the Van Dahl mansion, before carefully retucking Oswald back into the blankets. He wouldn’t be up for another thirty minutes, which gave Ed enough time to cook them breakfast.

Ed almost jumped when he opened their bedroom door and found someone already nursing a cup of coffee at their kitchen counter with a newspaper spread out before him. He had forgotten about their house guest.

“Good morning,” Ed said, trying to sound friendly but knowing the words came out stiff. He tightened the belt of his robe, feeling vulnerable in nothing more than his sleepwear. He reached into the cupboard to pull out his favorite mug—the purple one with the neon green questions mark—and poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe.

“Good morning,” John said. They lapsed into an awkward silence—neither speaking and nor making any sounds other than sips of coffee or the rustle of the newspaper.

“Where did you get the paper?” Ed asked, trying to be polite but knowing his tone came out flat. He had never been good at hiding his emotions when it came to Oswald.

“I grabbed on the way back from my morning run,” John said, which explained the tight-fitting workout clothing he was wearing that clung to his body like a second skin.

Ed had never been insecure about his body, but he felt a little self-conscious standing next to him in an old silk robe and faded flannel pants. The man was unfairly attractive, and the thought made Ed scowl.

He pushed the thought aside, instead deciding to focus on pulling out various pans. “Are you staying for breakfast? I was considering crepes.” There was a jar of Oswald’s favorite blackberry-rhubarb jam in the fridge as well as a small pint of sour cream. They weren’t the elaborate breakfast spreads that Olga used to cook them, but Ed loved their morning routine, loved being able to see Oswald still soft from sleep and cook for him.

“If it is no imposition,” John said, folding the paper neatly on the counter. “Do you need help?”

“You cook?” Ed asked before he could stop himself. It came out more surprised than what was polite.

John chuckled and gave a soft, sad smile. “My late wife, Helen, was a horrible cook, so I took care of all our meals.”

Ed tried to sound nonchalant as he pulled out the eggs and milk. “So, you cooked for Oswald often?”

John shrugged. “He helped me out of a situation, and I needed a place to stay for a while. The least I could do was cook for the two of us.”

Ed tried not to burn in jealousy again. Cooking had always been how he showed his affection, and knowing someone else— He took a quiet breath, remembering Oswald’s reassurances. “I usually cook us breakfast and dinner. Before, when we lived at the mansion, we had a housekeeper who would handle all the meals, but sometimes it was nice to just fix something simple.”

John smiled, resting his arms on the counter as he listened. “Anything I can do to help then?”

Ed considered the question. Crepes were a straightforward recipe, and he didn’t actually need help, but he could see an olive branch when one was offered. And he had changed too.

And for Oswald, he would be willing to try.

So he nodded. “Will you butter these two pans while I make the batter?” he asked, setting out the stick of butter next to the pans.

The jealousy was still there, but Ed knew it was unfounded. And, in the end, he could never hate someone who clearly cared so much about the man he loved.

* * *

When Oswald stumbled out of the bedroom later, rumpled and hair crumpled into an adorable messy nest, he found the two men that he loved most talking over a growing pile of crepes.

“Good morning,” Oswald said, tucking the robe closer around him as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Are those _palacsintas_?”

Ed beamed at Oswald, and Oswald’s chest gave a stutter. “Yes,” he said, and Oswald could see he was gearing up to talk a mile a minute. “I was just telling John about the cultural differences of crepes around the world. For example, it makes sense that both of you prefer sour cream as one of the toppings due to—”

Oswald cut him off with a kiss that Ed sighed and leaned into. “How about I set the table?” Oswald said when he pulled back. “Will one of you make me a cup of black tea, please?”

Oswald almost cursed himself when the words came out. He knew Ed’s jealousy, as his own, could often get the better of him, and the last thing he wanted was to set off some sort of one-sided competition for his affection.

But to his surprise, Ed simply looked at John. “Do you mind? The mug with the birds and English Breakfast tea is in that cupboard.”

John nodded, taking the directions without a complaint.

Oswald watched from the counter as Ed flipped another crepe in the pan while John set a kettle to boil, and he didn’t know if he could have been any happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been in the works for a few months! I had wanted to finish the entire thing before posting, but I got impatient. <3 This takes place a few months after the epilogue of _Redacted_ , and rating is subject to change. Please spare a few moments to let me know what you thought in the comments! <3


	2. Chapter 2

John had spent the last year stitching together the remnants of two different lives, neither of which he could return to. His house and life with Helen were gone, shattered into a million shards, and he'd never return to be at the beck and call of the High Table. Money had never been an issue—a lifetime of contracts meant more funds than he had known what to do with. Helen had worked more for the joy of her work than any need of money while John contracted himself out as a translator to help the hours pass when she was away.

So, the first week after he had left Matthew's apartment had been rough. Sometimes, he wondered what would have happened if he had never left that small apartment in New York City, if he had just stayed and worked out his grief with the smaller man in his arm every night.

But he knew he couldn't—shouldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to Matthew for John to take comfort in him even while he mourned his late wife. Matthew would have let him—would have let him take solace in his body and home, and John cared about Matthew too much to allow it.

The next months were both easy and hard. Easy because, after the previous few weeks, no one was actively trying to kill him. Hard because he didn't know what to do with himself anymore. He found himself, through luck and some serendipity, the owner of a half-rotted cabin in the woods and threw himself into learning the ins and outs of construction and renovations as a much-needed distraction.

And that is where Winston had found him.

* * *

“Winston,” John greeted flatly, gun up and pointed at chest level before the door was even fully open.

“Jonathon,” Winston said, looking incongruous in his suit and irreverent posture against the backdrop of the woods and worn, rotting porch.

“What do you want?” John motioned for his dog to stand down, but he didn’t relax, the safety of his gun still unlatched. He wasn’t in the mood for games. He had kept his nose out of Continental business, sequestered away in the woods, and the man still managed to find him. He wished he could be surprised, but he had known Winston for far too many decades to be fooled.

“Can't I check on an old friend?” Winston asked, as though John’s cabin was a stroll on the way to the theater.

John raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Not when you shot that old friend off the roof of your hotel, no.”

“And you know that was all in your best interest. Did you have another idea on how you were going to leave the Continental still breathing? I at least gave you a chance of surviving,” Winston said, matter-of-factly.

And John did know, and part of him was grateful but, “it still hurt,” he groused.

They were at a stand-off.

Winston caved first. He sighed, and his shoulders slumped minutely. “May I come in?”

John stepped aside. The cabin was still half-finished with the flooring pulled up in areas, but the kitchen was functional. John sat down in a worn chair that he got second hand from town and motioned for the Manager to do the same. He pointedly didn’t offer him coffee despite the fresh pot sitting in the carafe.

“How have you been, Jonathon?” Winston said, all warm smiles and acting like he was still sitting in the Continental, a king among men. “Quite the quaint place you have here.”

“Cut the bullshit. You didn’t come all this way to catch up, so what do you want?” John said. His dog, sensing the tension, pressed itself against his leg.

Winston sighed. “I come with an offering of peace and goodwill.”

John snorted. "There isn't anything you have that I want.”

“Not even information regarding a certain Administrator?”

John tried not to appear interested, but he knew he failed. Matthew was the only person other than Helen that made him lose most of his reason. “Is he alright?”

Winston waved away his concern. “Mr. Richardson is fine. He has even stolen away my dear Addy and refuses to give her back,” he said with mock drama.

John allowed a quirk of his lips, not entirely surprised. Addy had loved the man, doting on him as a sister would, and he had always suspected her loyalty laid more with the petite man than the Continental. “If he's fine, then why are you here?”

“He's been given a special assignment, a dangerous one that is not normally in the purview of an Administrator,” Winston said. “And that worries me.”

“You think he's been set up to fail,” John interpreted.

“Perhaps,” Winston said, and his voice relayed his uncertainty. “The Elder handed him the order himself, or so I heard.”

“Why would they want one of their own to fail?” John asked, trying not to give anything away in his body language. “And why would you care?”

“You wound me,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. “You know that I care for Matthew.”

John snorted.

Winston looked almost genuinely hurt. “Now, now, don’t be like that. Mr. Richardson was a fine and loyal employee for many years. And despite our difference, I wish him the best.”

John rolled his eyes but motioned him to continue. “So you say. So why do you think they are setting him up?”

Winston gave him an exasperated look. “Come now, ignorance doesn't suit you. They have no proof that he assisted you while excommunicado, which is likely why he's still alive. But the possibility is always there—that his loyalty lies with something other than the High Table.” He furrowed his brows as he frowned.

“But you said he was fine.”

“Thriving, even,” Winston said. “But that is a miracle when they send the man into the belly of the beast, the one place that has swallowed up and spit out every agent they have sent for the last century.”

“Where is he, Winston?” John asked, impatient and tired of games.

“Gotham City. “

* * *

A month later, John found himself at Matthew’s proverbial doorstep.

John didn't know what to expect when he decided to visit Matthew. It hadn’t been exactly on a whim or a fleeting fancy as much as he tried to make light of it.

And Matthew was different. Not entirely, but enough that it threw him off balance. He was still a little bit like the man he had first met at the Continental and a little bit like the Administrator. But there was something else, an ease about him, a peace that John was almost loath to interrupt.

He could see Matthew slip more and more into old habits as he spoke, how he became more animated and tactile as they chatted, setting a hand on John’s knee or laughing a little too loud as he looked up at John with a familiar, devious expression. And John recuperated, letting them fall back into all patterns as he would brush his hand against his cheek or look at him with evident fondness.

And then He came in.

And John honestly doesn’t know what to make of Edward Nygma. Matthew introduced him as his partner and the way they kissed left no doubt under what context he meant.

And the kiss... John could honestly say he had never seen the other man so genuinely smitten. The softness in his eyes, the adoration, couldn’t be faked, because it was how John used to look at Helen and how she used to look at him.

And it was a look directed at a man wearing the most eye-searing green suit which, admittedly, worked for the lanky man, the color only enhancing his sharp cheekbones and broad smile. But still, a bowler hat? Really? He was not the type of man he had pictured Matthew settling down with.

John had never been a jealous man. He had watched throughout the years as Matthew had invited others to his bed. Even when they had progressed into a more physical relationship, they had never been _truly_ together. Perhaps with time and if he hadn’t met Helen, that would have changed. Maybe if John hadn’t left months ago and stayed, he’d be the one pressing kisses to those lips. But that was the past, and John tried not to dwell on the what-ifs.

John had never been a jealous man, so he didn’t understand why a part of him bristled, just the slightest, at Edward Nygma?

* * *

Breakfast had been surprisingly amicable the next morning. John had woken up early to take the dog on his routine morning run and had been nursing a cup of coffee when Edward—Ed?—came in. John was admittedly a little surprised when he had started to make breakfast—he hadn’t seemed the type from their brief interactions the evening before, but then again, John knew he didn’t seem to type either to be the primary cook. The real surprise came when he had allowed John to assist.

They had worked together surprisingly seamlessly, no words exchanged except for the occasional question and answer. John was busying himself with slicing fresh strawberries, tossing the scraps down for his dog as a treat, when Ed made the first move.

“So,” he said as he cracked another egg, and John could hear the feigned nonchalance in his voice. “How did you and Oswald meet?”

John tried to think back to those days when he was just Viggo’s pet assassin, and Matthew was just a bartender. “My work took me to New York, where he was working. He almost took a nasty fall, and I was lucky enough to be nearby to catch him before he hurt himself.” It was only years later that Matthew had admitted that he had half-faked his stumble.

Ed hummed in response. “And that’s it? I thought maybe you two had met during something more dramatic. Oswald doesn’t…” Ed trailed off, and John remained silent as he let the man gather his thoughts. “Oswald doesn’t have many friends. At least, not ones he trusts.”

“Well,” John started, scraping the freshly cut strawberries into the bowl and starting on the peaches—soft and overripe and perfect for a fruit compote. “He was friendly, charming.” John smiled at the memory—how he had ignored the invisible bubble of the untouchable Baba Yaga without any reverence. “And persistent. I guess the chances to practice Russian weren’t abundant.”

“Russian,” Ed repeated, fiddling with the burners. “You’re Russian?”

John shrugged, even though they weren’t facing each other. “I was raised in a Russian community.”

“I supposed Oswald would know a few words of Russian. His mother was Hungarian, after all. Did you know that certain studies support that the origin of the Uralic languages, including early Hungarian, were in eastern or central Siberia? This is supported by another study that used genetics and archaeology that found that early Uralic speakers arrived from the East, specifically from eastern Siberia, to Europe.”

“No,” John said, impressed at the amount of knowledge the man displayed. John himself had a good memory for details, but to be able to pull specific information without thought showed a certain amount of intelligence that was impressive. “I did not know that. Interesting.”

Suddenly, the noise behind him stopped. John had been listening to the sounds of Ed scooping batter into the sizzling pans, so the sudden change in the pattern made him turn.

Ed was looking at him, hand frozen over his work. He was looking at John with an unreadable gaze.

“Is something wrong?”

“What is the difference between a dollar and a half and thirty five-cents?” Ed said, almost without breathing. “It’s a riddle. Do you give up?”

Ed opened his mouth as though to give the answer, but John stopped him with a hand. He cocked his head, considering. “Will you say that again?”

Ed swallowed but repeated it.

John made a considering noise and then smiled. “Nothing. Thirty five-cents. Thirty nickels is a dollar and a half.”

Ed’s face was still, mouth slightly open, and John wondered if he had been wrong and furrowed his brows. “Is that not right—”

“Nothing, yes,” Ed interrupted. “Nothing is wrong. Just, uh, wondering if you knew that while crepes are normally associated with French cuisine, there are similar foods across the world.” Ed turned back to the stove as he spoke. “For example, in Austro-Bavarian territory, they are referred to as palatschinken while in Brazil they are known as beiju and made with tapioca flour.”

John blinked, wondering if he had missed something but then shrugged and turned back to cutting the rest of the fruit. He let Ed continue his lecture, only interrupting him on occasion with a question until Matthew woke up.

* * *

It was only later that he remembered the riddle branded on Matthew’s chest, right over his heart.

* * *

After, once the three of them were dressed, he watched as Matthew and Ed gave each other a perfunctory kiss before parting—a shockingly domestic scene that made John ache, just a little, for how similar it was to himself and Helen.

John waved away Mathew’s offer of a guide for the day, choosing instead to explore Gotham on his own. He couldn’t deny that he was curious about the place—Gotham City, perhaps as much as John Wick or even more so—was the place of legends. There were a million rumors and tall-tales that surrounded the city, and he was curious to see how it matched up.

At first blush, it didn’t seem any different than most large cities. It had the same dirtied sidewalks and the same sour smell of urban trash that was mixed in with the scent of saltwater. The sky was overcast, lending a feeling that everything—from the grass to the people—was a middling gray color.

It didn’t take long for John to find the tea shop he had been searching for or for him to spot the person he wanted to see.

“Jonathon,” Addy said, standing up from her table to press a perfunctory kiss to each of John’s cheeks. She was dressed mutely, in a long olive skirt and cream cardigan, her trademark red hair covered by a sheer white headscarf. It gave her a softer look, like a dagger wrapped in lace.

“Addy,” John greeted, answering with his own short hug. “It’s been too long.”

The smile Addy gave him was knowing and a little sad, not unlike the one she gave him last time they had met. “Maybe not long enough,” she said, and John understood what she meant.

They both took a seat. Addy had chosen the perfect table—in one corner that gave them both clear sightlines to the entrances and exits, with John’s place a fraction closer to the door than Addy’s.

Addy was the first to speak, spreading the cloth napkin daintily in her lap. “How are you doing, John?”

John offered a lopsided smile. “I’m alright.”

“Are you really?” Addy said, pressing. She smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles in her skirt. “Last time I saw you…” She trailed off, pushing her painted lips together.

Last time they had seen each other, John had just lost his wife, his car, and his dog within a few days. It seemed like a lifetime ago, walking back into the Continental to see Addy behind the bar and ready with his usual glass of bourbon. It was odd that it had only been a year since then—John felt as if he’d aged a decade since. But he managed another smile, one that was gentler and more honest. “I am,” he said. “I think I am alright.”

There was a pause as Addy considered him, and John could feel her really _look_ at him. It was a skill that she had learned from Matthew—being able to see the truth beyond words—and it was almost comforting to know he had nothing to hide.

And then she smiled, wrapping her hands around her teacup. “I’m so happy for you. So what are you doing in Gotham?”

John could feel the tension seeping out from his shoulders at her approval and raised an eyebrow teasingly. “Shouldn’t I be asking you the same thing? Winston comes crying at my door, bemoaning that you’ve been stolen away.”

Addy snorted into her tea. “Winston will never forgive Matty, especially since Matty told him it’d be temporary.”

“And it’s not?”

Addy considered the question for the length of another sip of tea and then gave a small shake of her head. “I am here as long as Matty needs me. And, I will admit, the city tends to grow on you after a while.”

“When Matthew told me he grew up here, I told him that it explained a lot.”

Addy laughed, pressing a hand to her chest as she chortled. “I said the same thing! He always was just...different than the rest of us. Like he danced to the beat of his own drum, and nothing could phase him.”

They reminisced for a few minutes, swapping old stories from the Continental. As dark as their lives had been, the spots of happiness, laughter, and joy always seemed to center around that lounge.

“So, how do you like Gotham so far?” Addy finally volleyed.

John shrugged. “I admittedly that I haven’t seen much of it. I got in yesterday and spent most of the day catching up with Matthew.”

The smirk he got in return was salacious and knowing.

John gave her a warning glance. “Not like that. Matthew introduced me to his partner. He seems to be a nice enough man.”

Addy made a face and snorted, trying to cover it up by bringing her teacup up to her face. But she wasn’t fast enough, and in response to John’s questioning look, she sighed. “Edward and I have...had our differences.”

John was surprised. He didn’t think Addy had ever voiced her disapproval before.

Addy opened her mouth to say more and then closed it. Then opened it again, grimaced, and closed it. “It’s...complicated. I...should let Matty explain it.”

John eyed her, tracing her features and the way she shifted in her seat, crossing her legs at her ankles. “He’s the one, right? The one that Matthew used to love and the one that hurt him?”

“Did Matty tell you that?” Addy asked, not answering the question. But she didn’t need to. She wasn’t trying hard to hide the answer.

John shook his head. “No, but it makes sense.” John wasn’t an idiot, and it didn’t take a lot of brainpower to put together the riddle that Matthew had tattooed over his heart with the man who called himself the _Riddler_. John could recall the night he had let John trace the bullet wound on his stomach, the way his body tensed when he talked about love, and the way he’d close off at the hint of emotional attachment.

John always thought that he could have loved the man, but they were both a little too damaged. John grew up never knowing true love, and Matthew’s heart was too scarred over to be open to it again. In time, perhaps, if John had never met Helen, but that was another world.

Addy sighed. “Yeah, he is. But Matty loves him, so I’m trying to be happy for him, but I…” she trailed off again.

“You don’t trust him,” John finished.

Addy nodded. “He’s broken Matty’s heart more than once, which is plenty of reason to put him on my shit-list.” She sighed, heavy and unhappy. “But, it’s not my choice, ya know? Matty’ll do what he wants. He always did.”

He did know. The stubbornness and headstrong attitude were one of his most attractive qualities. “They seem very happy.”

Addy nodded, tracing a nail along the rim of her teacup. “Yeah. It’s been a few months now? Matty has been a lot happier recently. It was a little...dicey for awhile. There is so much history here for him, and most of it is bad.” She frowned, looking at her half-empty cup. “I want it to work out, but I guess I’m still worried I’ll have to pick up the pieces of his broken heart again.”

John wondered, for a moment, what she meant by _again_ but didn’t push. He had liked Edward in the little time he had known him, even after his hackles had been raised when he had made the connection between Matthew’s broken heart and this man. But, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Matthew this happy. He’s...different.”

“Yeah, he’s…” She bobbed her head from side to side as she tried to find the words. “He’s just different. You’ll see it more as you spend time with him. He’s lighter?” And then she shook her head. “No, that’s not quite right. I guess, freer with his feelings. He was always so wound up, like everything he did was planned out to the millisecond, but here it feels as though he can breathe a little easier.”

John nodded. “That’s good.”

Addy smiled. “Yeah, I think it is.”

* * *

After he and Addy parted, where he had wrung out a promise to visit him at the Continental, John wandered. He had no plans—he rarely did, nowadays—but it was odd to be back in a city and not feel the weight of the future resting on his shoulders. He milled around the park for lack of anything better to do. It was a beautiful park—large with lush grass and trees—but there were surprisingly few people around. He spied a handful of businessmen power walking down the paths and a small number of other people, but for midday with mild weather, he would have expected it to be much more crowded.

He bought a cheap cup of coffee from a corner market and sipped it as he strolled. Gotham, so far, didn’t seem any different than New York City or any other large metropolitan area. He had just decided to return to the Continental—John had purposefully left his dog behind for the day, but she probably was antsy for her afternoon walk—when it happened.

John Wick was not a hero. If anything, he was the villain of the story—the Baba Yaga who came creeping through the dark to slit someone’s throat. But when he saw the assailant out of the corner of his eye, lunging toward the young girl in a school uniform—who couldn’t have been more than ten—he couldn’t _not_ step in.

He may have not been fighting for his life for the last year, but that hadn’t diminished any of his skill. He pivoted, almost automatically, to intercept the attacker. What followed was a blur as his body shifted back into a fighting mode—second after second with nothing more important than staying alive. By the time he had his opponent on the ground bleeding from a knife to the shoulder, three more men had stepped out of the shadows, and then it was _on_.

Four hours later, John had a dirty shirt and a bruised rib. He had also rescued the young girl—who turned out to be the police’s commissioner’s daughter—from a large man with thick reptilian skin and a little blond girl who assured John that she was not, in fact, a little girl.

He was also arrested—but that was mostly a misunderstanding.

* * *

It turned out the young girl that John had protected was the police commissioner’s daughter who, after arguing loudly with the officers, got them to remove the handcuffs. John was waving away one of the EMS workers who had insisted on checking him over for injuries after seeing the blood on his shirt despite that he insisted that it wasn’t his.

The girl—Barb, she had insisted on being called—ran back to John, escaping the arms of what looked to be her very concerned father to envelope him in a hug. John cleared his throat, patting her on the back awkwardly as she gave her thanks. He had never been particularly comfortable around children, all too aware of the blood on his hands, and having children of his own had never been something he considered. His experience with children started and ended with his own youth, and that was as far from a healthy and typical example of an upbringing as was possible.

“Thank you,” the police commissioner said, trailing after his daughter. He offered his hand for John to shake. “Apologies for the cuffs.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, shaking his hand politely. “Anyone would have done the same.”

“Dad!” Barb said, arms still clung around John’s waist like a particularly affectionate octopus. “You should have seen it! John was _so cool_ when he fought Killer Croc. He did this thing with his back and bam-bam.” She did an odd twist as though to demonstrate, and John had to put a steadying hand on her shoulder before she could topple over.

“Why don’t you give John a second catch his breath, sweetie?” the police commissioner said, reached over to grab her hand. “Uncle Harvey will give you a ride home.”

John looked past the man to where he was indicating an older, heavyset man with a graying beard and wide-brimmed hat waiting by a car. He seemed to be giving directions to one of the police officers.

Barb reluctantly let go of John. “But,” she said, looking back at John with a frown, “will I see you again?”

John caught the police commissioner’s eyes and offered a wry smile. “Maybe if you are good, and your dad says it's okay.”

It was only after wrangling a promise out of her father that she was handed off to her uncle. The police commissioner came back, running a hand through his hair as he offered a sheepish smile. “Sorry about her, she gets easily excited. Jim Gordon, by the way.”

“She seems to be quite the handful,” John said with a chuckle. “John Wick.”

“Hell of a welcome to Gotham, isn’t it?” Jim said, with a crooked smile. His tie was lopsided, and he ran a hand through his hair. It made him look a decade younger than what John would have pictured a police commissioner looking like.

“Honestly, I’m not even that surprised.”

Jim laughed. “It grows on you.”

“So I’ve heard.” John checked the time. “Did you need anything else from me? I gave my statement to one of the officers.”

Jim shook his head. “We might need you to come down to the station tomorrow for some follow-up questions, but you are free to go. Did you need a ride?”

“If you could call me a cab, that’d be great.” John had no idea where he was or how far the Continental was from here. He had lost his cell phone in the shuffle of the last few hours. Otherwise, he would have phoned the Continental itself to send a car.

Jim scuffed, pulling his keys out from his pocket. “I’ll give you a ride. It’s the least I could do for saving my daughter.” He gestured to one of the cars parked along the perimeter. John gave the usual polite protests, but it _would_ save him a headache. It was only when both of them were seated that Jim asked, “Where to?”

“The Continental, please.”

Jim fumbled his keys, trying in vain to cover it up with a cough. “You work at the Continental?” he said, voice carefully neutral.

But John could hear the sudden wariness in his voice. “I’m just visiting an old friend,” he said, trying to keep himself calm and relaxed. The police and the Continental had always had a strained relationship in most places—a sort of purposeful blinders that had them looking the other direction. He had presumed it was the same in Gotham, though he wondered if he had misstepped.

Jim seemed to relax a little at the admission, cranking the ignition. The hum of the engine joined them as they started to pull away from the chaos of EMS and cops and back onto the main streets. “Old friends do always seem to bring trouble.”

John laughed. “Don’t they?”

It was a short drive to the Continental as John and Jim made small talk. John wasn’t particularly surprised that Matthew was waiting at the door when they pulled up; he always had eyes and ears everywhere.

“I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I, John?” Matthew said with a wry smile. And then he turned to Jim. “Thank you for delivering my wayward sheep back to me, James.”

John scuffed in amusement at being called one of Matthew’s sheep.

Jim was looking at John and then Matthew. He huffed out a breath that was a mix between incredulous and resigned. “This is your old friend?”

Matthew spoke before John could answer. “Don’t sound so jealous, James,” he said coyly, in a tone that John had heard many times. “You’ll always hold a special place in my heart.”

Jim groaned, and John was tempted to join him. “Oswald, please.”

Matthew smirked. “Would you care to come inside for a drink, James? Four Roses, if I’m not mistaken?”

Jim gave an insincere toothy grin. “Raincheck.”

“Pity. Do give my best to Lee and the little one.”

Jim rolled his eyes and opened his car door.

John caught his eyes before he could get in and gave him a nod. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Take care, John,” Jim said, and there was an undertone in his voice, a mix of concern and comprehension.

John smiled, silent, and was walking into the building before the car had pulled away from the curb.

“Really, John? I leave you alone for half a day, and you are playing white knight to little Barbara Lee Gordon?” Matthew teased, following John back into the club. The tables were mostly full already, and everyone was pointedly looking away as they strolled through.

“You know the police commissioner?” He wasn’t surprised by it—any Manager would be intertwined with the local police and politics. Still, they had spoken far too familiarly for it to be a purely business relationship. Not to mention, he had called him _Oswald_.

Matthew snorted, fishing out a set of keys from his vest pocket. He wasn’t looking at John, but he could hear the amusement in his voice. “Jim Gordon and I go far back, well before he was police commissioner.”

“Sounds as if there is a story there,” John said.

Matthew paused partway through unlocking the door to his persona suite, and the air shifted between them. It felt similar to all those years ago when Matthew would offer little crumbs of his life, and John would return with the offer to listen but never push. Matthew rarely elaborated. “There is,” he finally said, pushing the door open. “It’s complicated.”

“Like your tattoos?” John volleyed back. His dog rushed out to meet him, her tail wagging furiously. John kneeled, letting her give him her usual welcome kisses as he scratched behind her ears.

Matthew didn’t answer immediately, preoccupying himself with pouring two glasses of bourbon. The silence hung between them.

John let it, excusing himself to change into a clean shirt. He left the door open, and he was pulling a new shirt over his head when he heard, very softly from the living room—

“Yes,” Matthew said, “like my tattoos.”

John leaned against the doorframe, eyeing Matthew. He accepted the offered glass wordlessly.

“Jim saved my life a long time ago,” Matthew finally said, taking a seat on the couch. He leaned against the armrest, crossing his legs as he held up the glass of liquor with one hand.

John took a seat next to him, cradling his own glass of alcohol. He could smell it, the rich smoky scent of whiskey. “He called you Oswald.”

Matthew nodded but kept his eyes on his glass.

John watched his fingers, slim and inked, as he shifted the crystal tumbler in the light.

Matthew finally took a sip. “I met Jim Gordon for the first time while I was beating a man with a metal bat. Within a few days, I had my leg crushed by my old boss, and Jim Gordon was pointing a gun at my head by the docks.”

“Doesn’t seem like the best start of a friendship.”

Matthew laughed, and it was dark and bitter. “No, you wouldn’t think so. The old Don had ordered him to shoot me and dump me in the river to prove his loyalty. Jim chose not to, and I think our lives have always been intertwined since then.”

“He seems like a good man.” Not that John was one to judge—growing and living up in a community of killers hadn’t ever instilled a traditional sense of morality in him, but even he could see that Jim was that—a good man.

Matthew chuckled. “Oh, he is. So full of honor and chivalry with just that right amount of darkness that can make my skin tingle.” The look he shot John was salacious. “And you know how I am weak to a dangerous man.”

John couldn’t stop the next words coming out of his mouth. “Is Ed dangerous?”

Matthew froze, and there was another layer of ice that John could see creeping into his eyes.

And usually, John would have backed down, pressed a kiss to his lips in distraction, but he didn’t have that right anymore. So he opened his mouth, ready to wave away his question before he was interrupted.

“Yes,” Matthew said, voice ragged. “Ed has always been the most dangerous man to me.”

“The riddles.” John wasn’t an idiot. He had spent more than one night tracing the words inked over his chest. It was a simple riddle, even if John was obtuse enough to pretend to not know the significance of its placement.

Matthew gave a self-deprecating smile. “The riddles.” One hand came up, almost unconsciously, and pressed right over where John knew the tattoo was. “He—”

“He was the one that hurt you, wasn’t he?”

Matthew’s lips twisted into something that was a cross between a grimace and a smile.

“You never told me what had happened between you two,” John said. He had always been undeniably curious but hadn’t ever tried to pry. Prying, as everyone knew, was one surefire way that Matthew would run out that door and never return. But now—this wasn’t the same Matthew, was it?

Matthew’s eyes were downcast, focused into the distance and glazed over in memory. “Ed was,” he started. Then he paused, licked his lips, and tried again. “Ed was the first person that saw me for who I was after my mother died. And I—was selfish. Greedy.”

John set his hand over Matthew’s, giving it a comforting squeeze. The warmth of it was familiar, and it felt so small and delicate in his own.

Matthew flipped his palm and gave John’s hand a returning squeeze. “I wanted to keep him to myself, so I had his girlfriend killed. Ed found out and, well,” Matthew pressed both their hands over where John knew there was the scar of a bullet wound.

“Is that why you left?” John asked. He tried not to remember how that scar felt under his fingertips or the number of times he had pressed a kiss to it.

Matthew laughed. “I wish it was as simple as that. But no, this was early in our relationship. I don’t know if I can count the number of hurts we’ve done to each other since. But he—we—” He cleared his throat. “Well, he hurt me. Again. Not that I blame him, I guess, but I think I was too tired to keep trying—to keep playing this game of cat and mouse between me and the world. And that’s when I left and found the Continental.”

“Do you trust him? Now, after everything?”

Matthew’s eyes got misty. “I would like to think so. I think the time has mellowed us both, soothed over old scars.”

John squeezed his hand, bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss to it. “Well, if he ever hurts you again,” he trailed off with a teasing quirk of his lips.

Matthew laughed, and it was only a little forced. “You might have to get in line. I think Addy has first dibs.”

“So I have heard,” John said. “But, I have your back too.” He brushed a piece of Matthew’s hair out of his eyes.

“Even without a Marker?” Matthew said, soft.

John thought about the Marker he had left behind, the delicate press of blue petals, and the feel of dried blood. He nodded, leaning over to place a kiss on his cheek. “Always,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million years later, I return. I am not done with the Redacted-verse, so I hope some of you guys are still around to enjoy. I needed John bonding with our favorite boys, after all. I have one more seperate part planned for this little saga and then a few other treats, so make sure to follow the series if you want to be kept up to date. As always, you can come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://chierei.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Chierrei). <3
> 
> If you enjoyed, please take a moment to drop me a comment! Everyone's kind words are what keep me going and help motivate me more than you can ever imagine. <3

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works for a few months! I had wanted to finish the entire thing before posting, but I got impatient. <3 This takes place a few months after the epilogue of _Redacted_ , and rating is subject to change. Please spare a few moments to let me know what you thought in the comments! <3


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